Discovering Shame and Regret at the Bottom of a Popcorn Chicken Container in a Grocery Store Hot Case

Photo by Thanos Pal on Unsplash

So, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up my chihuahua’s viagra prescription (it’s for his heart condition, to be clear). I pretty much only go to this particular grocery store when I have to pick up my dog’s viagra every other month, so when I do go, I also get the popcorn chicken and sourdough bread my kids like that this grocery store makes.

After I grabbed the prescription, I went over to the hot case at the deli counter and asked the guy for two pounds of popcorn chicken. Usually, I get one pound, but my kids typically devour it within three or four minutes of me setting the container down on the kitchen counter. Since, as I already said, I rarely come to this store, I went ahead and doubled the size of my order. It didn’t seem extreme at the time.

The guy was like, “hold on, I’ll get a big box from the back.” I didn’t feel like a special box was necessary, but I put my trust in him because he presumably knows more about popcorn chicken than I do. Anyway, he goes away and comes back a minute later with a giant box. This box is big enough that if you needed to, say, carry a horse head around, it would probably fit. Like, if you’re in the mafia, you have to send a message to an enemy, and you don’t want to just carry your horse head around loose, this box might do the job for you.

The guy then starts scooping up popcorn chicken and putting it into the giant horse-head-sized box. He keeps scooping and scooping. Checking the scale as he goes. I begin to feel like people are gathering around to watch. Still, he keeps scooping. He checks the scale again. Finally, he says, “one more scoop,” transfers the last scoop of chicken, and tosses the metal scooper back into the now empty container in the hot case. It clangs around dramatically. Several onlookers gasp. The guy then starts folding the tabs on the box. He says something to me I don’t understand.

I say, “Sorry?” He just looks at me quizzically and several onlookers laugh. Maybe he said, “Would you like me to try to stuff a horse head into this box as well?” I’ll never know for sure.

The crowd has swelled considerably at this point. Everyone has heard the news about popcorn chicken man now.

I consider trying to explain my situation, but I don’t think saying “I’m simply getting my dog’s viagra so I have to buy a lot of popcorn chicken” will help me get to where I want to be. Finally, the guy hands me the gigantic box that is like a quarter full, to be honest. I slink away in shame, clutching a giant cardboard box filled one-fourth of the way with circular chicken pieces, a clear plastic bag containing a round loaf of sourdough bread dangles sadly from my other hand.

I head straight to the register because I apparently have enough food to last several weeks now. And enough shame and regret to last a lifetime.